A Lo Fi Kind of Love
by rubygoddess
Summary: Total AU, based on the novel "High Fidelity". Spike Giles is a down-and-out record storeowner with a commitment problem. The love of his life, Buffy Summers, has just left him. Share his manic journey as he tries to win her back. WIP, R/R please!
1. Lessons

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Disclaimer: Inspired by much reading of the fantasy fics on Spuffyarchive.com. Yes, I'm jumping on the Fantasy Bandwagon! Basically, I'm taking one of my favorite books and combining it with one of my favorite things (well Spuffy, if not "BtVS" in general) to revel in the twisted, twisted fruits that result. When I say "loosely" based on the novel "High Fidelity", I mean I did everything except steal direct dialogue and description. Because that would be bad, very, very bad. Nick Hornby is British. He'd probably send me to the pillory if he found out or something. So I'm saying it right now. I stole, err, I mean "borrowed" all plot ideas and characters from Nick Hornby's "High Fidelity" and Mutant Enemy.

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Summary: William "Spike" Giles is a down-and-out record storeowner with a commitment problem. Fed up, the love of his life Buffy Summers, has just left him. Follow his manic self-explorative journey that follows as he attempts to win her back. 

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Rating: R to be safe. For mild references to adult situations and language. 

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Feedback: Hells yeah I want it. You like the story, you want it to continue, you leave a review. It's that simple. 

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Chapter 1: Lessons

In all my muddled, sometimes uncertain existence, I have learned a number of ever-constant lessons: 

*Do not fix something if it's not broken.

*The temptation to fix the aforementioned something that remains unbroken is derived from the masculine fixation for tools and menial construction projects and is often overwhelmingly powerful. Do not give into it.

*If you are a worthless shit like me, and have already given into it, accept your fate as a worthless, shitty prat.

A tad bitter, you say? Well let me tell you, twenty-five years is sufficient proof of the tenets that I have mentioned, bitter or not. In all my years subversively striking out against education, I cannot deny these lessons rewarded to me after the years of pain, humiliation and chagrin experienced. 

If you haven't guessed already, the "something" I have been referring to is my clever code name for "relationships". Yes, I know I seem like the all-typical male with my domineering hardware metaphors for commitment phobia, and therein lies the problem. I am the typical male. I do have commitment phobia. I can think of no greater curse. 

You think that by knowing what I know, I would have sod the whole relationship thing every time it came round the bend. But again, when it comes to that, it's all male: just brawns and brainless animal instinct. Still, it's getting to a point where I'm starting to give into my intellect. Women + maintained contact of a committed nature = Bad. Very bad. 

Don't even try and call me a misogynist. I have a deep-rooted fountain of love for the female persuasion. In fact, it is so replete and large that it overflows and becomes too hard to contain within one relationship. As soon as I am bound to one woman, I immediately have my sights set on another. Yes, I know I'm a sick, depraved tool. I am well aware.

The thing is, I didn't get like this on my own. I had a little help along the way to start me down this bitter path. _Women_ are the ones I have wronged, and they are the same ones who have wronged me. They started it. I could have been Mr. Faithful if it wasn't for them. They have continued to make my life a living hell and subconsciously, it's been war of some kind ever since. 

Take my top list of all-time greatest and most heart-wrenching breakups. These are the ones who have really nailed it for me. They have made it apparent why I am the way I am. They have shamed me to point where there is nothing to do but utter a rallying cry against the whole lot of womankind. 

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1. Cecily Hallows- Junior High School. Typical first time, schoolboy crush. She was, in my fourteen-year-old and unpracticed eyes, exquisite. A member of the so-called "in-crowd", she was everything a first crush was supposed to be: unattainable, distant, mysterious, beautiful. Yet by some grace of God, she was not so unattainable, or so I thought the night of Harmony Kendall's party. It was the usual pre-pubescent affair. Awkward snogging, bad music, a variety of snack foods. I was sitting alone in a beanbag chair when Cecily looked at me from across the room and did the one thing that made my world stop. She smiled and crooked her finger at me. I happily and hastily obliged her. The rest of the night was spent kissing and groping in such an inexperienced manner that it makes me blush just to think of it. 

Anyway, I figured this made Cecily and me an item. I was euphoric the day after at school. I paid utterly no attention in class (which was not so unusual) and devoted all time to writing her profuse, sentimental and horrible poetry (which _was_ unusual). The whole day was leading up to lunch hour, the moment I would seek her out and proclaim my love for all to see.

So I did. Like the stupid git I was, I got down on one knee and read her this abominable poem in which I actually rhymed "effulgent" and "bulge't". Needless to say, it did not go over well. She was disgusted, as was the rest of the cafeteria, and she uttered the one thing that made my heart seize together painfully. 

"You're beneath me, William."

For a second I didn't get it. I thought it was a terribly obvious thing to say since I was down on one knee, prostrate before her. But she couldn't leave it off there. She had to repeat it viciously and vindictively, as if to show the rest of the school that that night at Harmony's had meant nothing. I can see now that it was probably a mass social-faux pas for her to even lower herself to a snog with me. After all, what was I? Just a punk kid who had garnered the name "Spike" for his eccentric, bleach-blond hairstyle. But at the time, it was crushing, beyond crushing. It dashed my innocent hopes of flowers and puppies and walking-in-the-park kind of love in one fatal second. I honestly thought I loved the girl, and as a result of her rebuke, I fell into a headlong depression that still seems to influence me to this day in its surliness. Now I can't even remember what the girl looks like, or why I even liked her. It was the glamour of the first kiss and the first heartbreak that did me in. It is something I've never fully recovered from. 

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2. Darla Jacobs- Sophomore Year, High School. The problem with Cecily was her icy, untouchable persona. She was like Mount Everest in her cold, unmountable reservation. I needed someone from the other extreme. I needed someone bouncy and alive and _very_ mountable. Word went round the boys' locker room that Darla Jacobs was more than willfully mountable, so I decided to make my move. It wasn't a hard seduction. My Cecily episode had not deterred me so much that girls found me completely undesirable. I had the whole purposeful "bad-boy" aura going for me. I had the wheels (a beaten, but "rugged" motorcycle I had inherited from my cousin and fixed up), I had the long leather coat (filched from my father's old wardrobe----I shall never dare ask what it was doing there), and most importantly, I had the punk-ass swagger and curled upper lip. I had successfully deceived all into thinking I was hot shit.

Anyway, Darla didn't need much in the way of seducing; she was extremely "responsive" if you know what I mean. She was a touchy-feely creature and the contrast between her and Cecily was like night and day. She practically attacked me the first time I introduced myself and I was more than grateful. We got along splendidly from the start. We were both looking for companionship, so we weren't exactly picky. I guess she was easy that way. 

But, as I later found out and to my dismay, not in other ways. She was a catty and confusing girl, that one. One minute she'd be whispering dirty, heavenly things to me in a hushed, thick voice as we fell over onto her bed, the next, she'd be fighting my hands as they made the elusive trek up her legs, edging towards her skivvies. It's not like I pushed her. I just thought it was something we mutually wanted. She seemed to indicate that she wanted it and I knew _I _did. So why all this difficulty? Why all these games that left me bubbling under the surface like a champagne bottle about to pop?

It's not really fair to her, I suppose. I'm painting her to be a silly pseudo-slut-prude, but in actuality, she was really a nice girl. She was just insecure and lonely and yielding, as is usually the case with girls of her ilk, but at the time, I really didn't care how nice she was. All I could see was a case of flagrant misrepresentation that was not leading to the desired goal of a nice shag.

So I broke it off. It may sound callous, but what do you expect from a horny teenager who saw all girls as walking, faceless purveyors of the ever-wonderful breast? I didn't think I was out of line when I dumped her. I thought it was clear that we were only having some fun that would inevitably lead to nowhere. But she obviously didn't. She cried when it ended and told me she "really liked" me, but it was too late. I had moved to another girl who wasn't so misrepresentative, lucky for my loins, and Darla was left to be passed on to the next unfulfilled gent. I didn't think of it much until that day in history when Football Player Larry lumbered into class and grunted triumphantly, "Hey Spike! Yeah Spike! You pussy! That Darla chick you've been buttering up to the last two months? I popped her cherry last night!"

My cheeks stung red at the vulgar remark, but I remained aloof. "What are you talking about, beefstick?"

"Went on one date with her. Got into her pants when you couldn't even venture past third base." He laughed snidely. "She told me."

It was humiliating. Darla had chosen this thick waste of space over me? I had been rejected by Darla the same way I had been rejected by Cecily. Even with a different type of girl, I still got the same shitty deal. 

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3. Drusilla Kensington- Freshmen Year of College. This one was it. The Big Kahuna. The one that cemented my non-commitment tendencies forever. If it weren't for Dru, who's to say I wouldn't today be a happily married man with a gaggle of fat babies and diaper coupons?

I met Dru at UC Sunnydale my freshmen year of college. She immediately struck me as exotic, enigmatic, sweet and gorgeous in a withering Victorian kind of way. I fell hard for her quixotic mannerisms and tastes. Even her eccentric choice of study impressed and appealed to me: Feminist Gothic Literature. 

She had a way of talking in extraordinary, lilting accents that made her unbelievably glamorous, making languid, sweeping movements of her body at the same time. She would put on little skits with herself and say what appeared to be abstruse, deep comments. Most of all, she was well liked amongst our group, especially by the males. It never ceased to torture me. 

I was taken with her, as if under some spell. The desire to keep her for myself was almost compulsive. Fury raged within me every time I saw her flirt with another man. I felt the desire to crack open the skull of any other guy she smiled lasciviously at. I clung to her solicitously whenever another man walked into the room. I was always too consumed by enormous madness to recognize that they only looked at her because she looked first, licking her lips the whole while. I was too blind with what I thought was love to see how flaky, needy and flighty she was. I was too concerned with the possibility of loosing her. 

Which is why I finally did. After giving me a go about my possessive habits, Dru immediately took up with a real son-of-a-bitch named Liam Angel. I mean, come on. The chuffer was named _Angel_. If that didn't turn her off, what would? He was everything I was or at least tried to be, but with more confidence. He was dark, he was broody, he was handsome, he was deep. Oh, and he was a real prick, too. 

I couldn't let it go. I practically stalked Dru and her boy-toy for a couple of ugly months. I would hover outside their apartment in the middle of the night. I would make random, repeated phone calls for hours on end and hang up after anyone said hello. I sent her roses and gifts nearly every day. It ended finally when Angel threatened to call the police. 

By that time, I was too embroiled in frenzied depression to care about much else, so hence, my academic life suffered. I flunked out of all my classes and lost the desire to complete my degree in English Literature, much to the squealing consternation of my parents. So I did what any reckless and self-professed suicidal failure would do: I borrowed a couple thousand dollars from my father and opened a record store. At the time, it made perfect sense. 

Six years later, I am the same impulsive nineteen year old I was then; the same one who fucked himself over by risking economic security to open a second-hand record store (which everyone knows, isn't exactly the most sound venture in today's MTV, bubble-gum pop society) just because he couldn't tell his girlfriend to piss off. 

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After Dru left me, I was broken and considerably anti-women for a good long while. Then Buffy happened.

You'll notice that I haven't included her in the list of all-time greatest break-ups, though she _has_ only left me this morning. That's because the situation is still new, my feelings still hazy and unclear, as if I'm still in that state of shock. Or maybe I'm just can't get fired up about shit like this anymore. 

But before I tell you the end, let me tell you the beginning. 

So by what was to be my junior year of college, I had dropped out of school and was the sulky owner of a record shop. In the mean time, to cover additional bills, I DJ-ayed at a club in Sunnydale called the Bronze. It was nothing big, just an occasional gig that I enjoyed despite the sickening sight of smarmy males and females playing out the mating game every night. Though girls would usually gravitate towards me, lingering by the stage and turntables, I ignored them, not because I didn't appreciate them in general as fine-looking human beings, but mostly because I was scared that one of the harlots would trap me again and leave me once more. I didn't even fancy a mindless fuck, which should tell you how far-gone I was. 

I don't know why I was never scared of Buffy. She's one of those amazingly stunning girls that just _look_ intimidating. She's all long legs and blonde hair and golden skin and in short, very, very Hollywood. Yet she never gave off an icy impression. 

In fact, the first impression she gave off was bitchy. One night while dj-aying, I was getting a drink from the bar and she had been climbing out of a barstool when we collided into each other. She gave me a thorough reprimanding when I doused her clothes in Scotch and I was too gloomy to be polite. So we yelled and bitched and screamed at each other for awhile, and eventually I stomped off stormily, glad to be rid of her. Yet the whole night, my mind kept turning to her, despite the reminders I made to myself about not getting involved with anyone. I struggled hard to concentrate on anything else, but that all went out the window when she finally came up to the stage by the end of the evening to apologize. 

"I've just been touchy, lately," she admitted with a shrug. "Bad breakup, heartbreak galore . . . I'm kind of burned out and I've been taking it out on random strangers."

Needless to say, I could more than relate. For the next three hours, I talked her ear off about my similar predicament and she sympathized immediately. I told her about Dru, she told me about her ex, a real asshole named Parker. And it's not like we spent the whole night in commiseration. I found out a lot about her. I found out how witty and funny she was and how she was studying Art History at UC Sunnydale and how her parents had divorced when she was younger and how she thought that affected her adult relationships. As we continued talking and laughing, I forgot all promises I made about distancing myself from women and went home with her. We had a mind-blowing night of sex and we've been together ever since.

Past tense. I keep forgetting to refer to that in the past tense. We _were_ together. 

It's just . . . she's always been there. With me. I didn't count on the day she wouldn't be. Maybe I took it for granted how easy it was with her. It wasn't like any of my other relationships where I had to be constantly aware of every single detail to make sure I didn't fuck anything up. Buffy and I simply fit and flowed with ease. We fought like mad, made up, then shagged like bunnies. I could see no glitch in the system. 

But she apparently did. Which is why she marched out of our apartment last night after a long and bitter argument about the status of our relationship. She said it was going nowhere. I saw nothing wrong with that. So she left. 

You might think that this doesn't sound like I truly have the tendency to fix the unbroken. After all, if I did, I would have fought for it before things deteriorated in the first place. But apparently I did that, in my own churlish way. Last night, Buffy told me half-spitefully that I had fixed the relationship when it wasn't broken and because of that, she had fix it up now that it was. Funny how I am oblivious to any of these actions and circumstances until they blow up in my face. Bloody fucking hell. You think I would have learned by now. You think I would learn my lesson. 

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TBC…………I don't know if I'll continue the fic, but if enough of you guys like it, I probably will. It's a big departure for the usual stuff I write, but it was great fun all the same. And don't worry if you think that the story will lack as much dialogue as this chapter did. I was just setting the stage for a (hopefully) continued story. Please leave a line if you think it's worth continuing! 


	2. This Pisshole of a Life

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Disclaimer: Everything not mine, except for John Cusack and Spike, who are both shackled and chained to my bedroom wall. I'm a lucky gal. 

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Rating: R in this part for language. 

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Feedback: Yes, please! This story can also be found at the Fantasy AU site, Spuffyarchives.com

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Chapter 2: This Pisshole of a Life

My record store is a modest little establishment in the Sunnydale business district. You think its location in the _business district_ would actually garner business. It's all wishful thinking. 

The unfortunate name of my store is "Ye Old Music Shoppe". Believe me when I tell you I had nothing to do with it. When I was still getting started, my father decided to make the sweeping gesture of acceptance over my fall from a secure future and commissioned the whole process of emblazoning the chosen name on the awning and window. 

"It appeals to the Old World sentiment, don't you see?" he told me in a flush of pride, cleaning his glasses. "You could have those antique old record players scattered around, wouldn't that be nice?"

"Next thing, you'll want me to have one of those heavy barbershop moustaches and play a lark on the ol' harpsichord for customers," I retorted, rolling my eyes. 

This is why we don't have a good father-son relationship. 

Anyway, despite the antediluvian name (which I was too lazy and too indigent to change), the store actually sells a lot of good, _modern_ stuff. Most of it is used vinyl, LPs and 45s that we've accumulated into a collection that would make any serious hipster's mouth water, but we have a lot of newer stuff too. Just don't ever request something like the new Linkin Park release. You shall be mercilessly thrown out on your arse if you do. 

This morning, I've stumbled into the shop looking like I've spent most of the night getting boozed up, when the reality of it is, I've been just moodily listening to every existing, drippy song about heartbreak while drinking old juice boxes of Hi-C that Buffy left in the larder. With blood-shot eyes, I gaze around the shop and realize one thing. 

I detest this place more than life itself. 

Everyday, it's the same bloody thing. I stand around, pretending that at any minute, we'll have an imminent customer. The fact of the matter is, we haven't had one in months. Or at least it seems like it. People will drift into the store with their trendy haircuts and glossy indie music magazines and waste my time by just aimlessly leafing through the racks. Then they always look towards me at the cashier's desk a bit nervously, as if they're worried that their purchases are so uncool that they will incur an exclusive, lofty look of disdain from me when I ring it up. Sometimes I feel like screaming at them that I don't care a twopence if they buy soddin' Englebert Humperdink, so long as it pays the rent. Bloody people. 

Oz is arranging the new releases display when he sees me glare around the shop disgustedly. "Hey Spike," he says, giving me a friendly nod. 

I'm so morose that it takes me a few seconds to nod back. After I do, I become increasingly aware of the pounding cries of rage that are echoing through the store. "What's this you got on? The Misfits?"

Oz nods again. "I'm feeling in a riotous mood this morning," he answers ironically since he's one of the most non-emotive and stoic people I know. 

Oz is just of the three other people who work here. It's ridiculous that we have so much customer service when we lack customers, but I don't have the heart to fire them. They work for little less than nothing anyway. It gives them something to do. 

"Where's Gunn?" I sigh, wearily climbing up to the elevated cashier's desk. 

"In the back. Stocking and drowning in the melodious melodies of Tupac." 

"Great. And Xander?"

Oz shrugs. "Got me. He said something about making a special Monday Morning compilation. Hey, we want the new Flaming Lips CDs kind of near the front, don't we?"

I look at Oz admiringly. He's the right kind of bloke for this job. He's not bitter and weary like I am. He doesn't see music as just a shitty substitute for facing reality. He loves music and loves making it. He's even got a band called The Dingoes Ate My Baby. Rips it up on the guitar, he does. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess." 

He must pick up on my sullen, fatigued tone, because his face changes and he's staring at me with concern. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good." Bloody not. Buffy's gone and I have a headache the size of Russia. I rub my temples and Oz starts for the stereo. 

"I can turn it down if you want-----"

I stop him. "No, leave it." I don't want it to seem like things aren't normal. Besides, after listening to hours upon hours of whining, teary songs, the Misfits are a welcome change. "I'm feeling in a riotous mood myself."

Just then, Xander strides into the store, jarring my eyes with his hideously bright ensemble. He's got on a Hawaiian shirt, for God's sake. When will the torture end?

"And how are you lovely creatures doing this morning?"

This guy is always so jovial that I would be compelled to hate him if he wasn't a mate. Still, ours is a begrudging friendship. He was Buffy's best friend first, which is the main reason I gave him the job. After some snarking at each other, we settled on a compromise, which stipulated that we stand each other. It's not so bad. He starts to grow on you, I guess. Like mold. 

"Good," Oz replies and looks anxiously over at me. I've got my head on the desk and don't intend to pick it up for Xander's sake. 

Xander stands awhile, listening to the music we've got on. He makes a face. "You Ragin' Reggies listening to the adolescent cry of the disaffected, huh? Well I got something that _really_ screams punk rock."

He goes over to the stereo and slips in a cassette. He pumps up the volume and grins expectantly. And then the first note sounds. It's the bloody "Itsy-Bitsy-Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" song. Hideous. 

Xander begins to throw his head up and down as the music fills the store. "You hear it guys? This is the _real_ anthem of the anti-establishment! Stick it to the Man in style while grooving to the poppy rhythms!" He's starting to do a dance something Oz and I have christened "the Snoopy Dance". Believe it or not, this goon has a girlfriend. 

I grit my teeth. My love of five years is gone. I feel murderous. The last thing I want is to listen to this drivel. "Turn it off, Xander," I growl. 

"Come on, Spikester! Get into it! She's singing a narrative for the ages. It's about a _bikini_. How could a song be bad if it's about skimpy, womanly apparel?"

"This one is. Turn it off."

Gunn comes from the back room. "What the hell is this music?"

"It's my Monday Morning Music compilation, dog," Xander notes gleefully, still waving his arms and legs around in a bizarre fashion. "This knocks the socks off P. Diddy, let me tell you what."

Gunn frowns at him. "Don't get me started on Diddy. And how many times I have to tell you _never_ to call me '_dog'_?"

"It'd be fine if it was a Monday Morning compilation, Xander, but it's Monday _afternoon_. So turn it off."

"But you haven't even gotten to the best song!" Xander whimpers. I breathe and prepare myself. 

"What is it?"

He smiles widely. "Barbara Striesand and Neil Diamond's 'You Never Bring Me Flowers." 

That's it. I stalk to the stereo, grab the cassette out, and proceed to rip the tape up. Xander yelps and makes a jump for it, but I push him off. 

"Hey man! That's my tape!"

"Was your tape. And I'm doing you a favor. No man should subject himself to such odious music." I smash the tape up with my bare hands, then throw it to the floor so I can give it a violent stomping. All the frustrations of the day, of the night, of my life are targeted on this helpless piece of plastic. The rest stare at me in confusion as I massacre the compilation. 

"Hey chill out, G," Gunn says, reaching for my arm as I start to get out of control. 

"Geez, Spike," Xander mumbles darkly while I destroy his property. "Way to carry on a hissy fit. It's just a stupid tape. I feel sorry for Buffy. With you carrying on girly temper tantrums like this, I can't see how she stands you."

The comment breaks me. Blindly, I lunge for Xander's throat and try to get my hands around his puny neck. I shake him brutally, but Gunn and Oz grab and restrain me. There's scuffling and some shrieking on Xander's side, but in a minute, we've all calmed down and I'm stomping off towards the back, slamming the door thunderously. 

Trying to calm myself, I collapse into the sofa and attempt to think of nice things. Things besides Buffy and women in general. But there's nothing nicer than Buffy and women, so it's not successful. I light up a fag and take deep, cathartic drags. After a few moments brooding, there's a knock on the door. Oz sticks his head in. 

"Hey."

"Hey."

He enters the room awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He's usually not stuck in this predicament because he usually doesn't say anything. So he fidgets around for awhile until he stops and hands me a CD. "Oh umm, here. It's that Sigur Ros CD you wanted me to burn. I did it a couple days ago and just forgot to give it to you."

Great. More sad, old fart music. I feel like I've overdosed on moody, depressing music, but I take it from him. "Thanks," I lie. "I appreciate it."

He pauses, but decides to delve into it. "So I heard about you and Buffy."

I chuckle mirthlessly. "She already disseminating it to the world, then?"

He shakes his head. "No. Willow told me this morning. Buffy was upset last night, and they stayed up pretty late talking about it."

So she's upset and loosing sleep over me. This cheers me up immensely. 

"Really?"

"Yeah. Listen, I'm really sorry."

"It's okay. What have you got to be sorry about? You still have a pretty lass at home."

"Still, I mean . . . it sucks for you. If you want to talk . . ."

I envision what talking to Oz about this would look like. I can't imagine anything besides the picture of us grunting monosyllabically to each other. "Naw, it's alright."

"Well . . . I was wondering if you wanted to hang with Willow and me tonight. You know, cheer up some? Willow said she really wanted to see how you were doing. We're going to the Bronze. Some new band is playing there and they're supposed to be really good. You game?"

I think of the alternative. Me at home alone, watching '_Dawson's Creek'_ while gorging on Hi-C. "Yeah okay."

"Great." He turns to go.

"Hey Oz?"

He looks back at me. "Yeah?"

"Tell Xander if he ever brings in another tape like that, I'll do worse than a hissy fit."

He laughs. "Okay."

After he exits, I sit back and return to my diversionary game of thinking of things besides Buffy. Like soccer. And movies. There was a great looking film I wanted to see at the cinema the other day. Buffy wanted to see it too. Buffy loves the cinema. In fact, we made love one time in the back of a movie theater and----bloody hell. Get the _fuck _out of my mind, you vixen. 

The phone rings before I can continue screaming at Imaginary Buffy in my head. It's my mum. 

"Hello William dear, how are you doing?" she croons. 

"Good, Mum." My flat tone isn't exactly convincing. 

"And how's lovely Buffy?"

My knuckles go white against the receiver. "Lovely Buffy is fine, Mum," I grind out. 

"You know, she's a blessing, she really is. That girl keeps you in line. If it wasn't for her, I would constantly be worrying after you and your ways. When you were a lad, all you did was cause me trouble. You need a good girl to take care of you. You'd go stark raving mad if you didn't have Buffy-----"

What is this, Piss on Spike day? It's like the whole world subconsciously knows about Buffy and has chosen to kick me in the balls with it. "Well I guess it's the strait jacket for me," I interrupt curtly. "Because I don't have a Buffy after all."

Empty silence and I can almost hear her shake her head. "Spike . . . ?"

"That's right. She's gone. She's left me."

Shrilly, she nearly shouts, "Gone _where_?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" I yell back.

"Well what did you _do_ to her?!"

"What have _I_ done?! What have _I_ done?! Thanks for your stunning display of support, you silly bint!"

She has started crying. Good. I stretch out on the couch with satisfaction and listen to her blubber on. "H-how . . . William, you'll _never_ make anything of yourself," she gasps through sobs. 

I sit up again and shout through the phone, "It's just a _girl_, Mum! It's not like college! I'm not gonna go nuts and risk everything to buy a hot dog stand or some shitty thing like that!" In the back of my mind, I feel like I'm lying. I could certainly go crazy over something like this. 

"You'll never get married. You'll never have a family. The store will fail and you'll have to live with your father and I again . . ." 

I can't take this. How did we get from Buffy leaving to me being a basement-dweller in my parent's home? "Oh _shut the BLOODY HELL UP, Mum!!"_

She has dropped the phone. I'm about to hang up with relish, but a man has cleared his throat on the other line. 

"William." It's my dad, ol' Rupes. "I do believe this is a record. Less than five minutes and already you've reduced your mother to tears. I'd commend you, but I'm the one who shall have to clean up the aftermath."

"She started it. She couldn't leave well enough alone. She just _had_ to go on about . . ." I don't feel much like saying her name at all. It's become too taboo to say aloud. Uttering her name is now the equivalent of saying "cunt" or something.

Dad relieves me. "Yes, I heard what she was saying. And though I don't approve of the way she handled it, I do share her concern. Would you like to talk about it?"

I bite back impatience. "Don't worry about it, Rupert."

"Don't call me that, son. I'm your father. And as your father, I'm here for you, you know that."

"Yeah." A heavy hesitation lingers as I can tell he wants me to tell him effusively about the whole thing. But I won't.

"So . . . you don't want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly, no."

He sighs. "Well I'm afraid I'll just have to pry. What happened?"

"I don't know. Why is everyone asking me that? I don't know." Actually, no one has asked me that. I've been the only one who has, but with all the questions I pose to myself, it seems like it's hordes of people.

"Did you do something?"

"Ha. If I knew, I would be with her, vowing to never do it again, wouldn't I? Not talking on the phone with you like a sad sod. And why does everyone assume that it's my fault?"

"Well . . . usually because it _is_."

I snort. "Well it's been great talking to you, Dad, I'll call you up again in six months----"

"Spike wait. I'm sorry. I apologize, that wasn't very tactful. All I'm saying is . . . it's kind of a habit with you, isn't it?"

"What is?" I know very well what is. 

"_This_. Breaking things off. Going from girl to girl. But we really thought it was different with Buffy. You had been together for a long time. Now this again."

I grip the edge of the couch for control. "No one can stay married for a gazillion years the way you and Mum have. This is a different generation and time period. Nowadays, relationships fail all the time." This rationalization does nothing to make me feel better. "Besides, I didn't leave her, she left _me_."

"And you had nothing to do with this?"

"For Chrissakes----how am I supposed to know?! I'm sure she thought she had her reasons, but I'm no mind reader! I thought things were going fine. Obviously they weren't!"

He sighs again. Why is it that people always sigh around me? I must bring it out of them. "Well I hope this has taught you a lesson."

"God. Who are you, my headmaster? This is my life! Don't try to use it to censure me! I'll make my own bloody, fucking mistakes!"

"How many mistakes must you make until you learn, Spike?" He snaps sharply. I guess he's lost his librarian cool. "When can we ever expect better things from you?"

I don't have any witty and biting comebacks other than, "When fucking hell freezes over!" so I bark that and hang up the phone. I stew in my juices for awhile and then the phone rings annoyingly once more. I snatch it and yell ragingly, "Listen you old chuffer, I don't care what you have to say about my fucking love life, I'd rather not fucking hear it, so fuck OFF!"

No one speaks for several seconds and I realize that it's not Rupes after all. A girl clears her throat and says, "Well good. Because I wasn't really in the mood to discuss your love life right now. In fact, I was hoping we could avoid it." Damn it. I've made a horrible mistake. It's Buffy. 

"Oh God Buffy, I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone else, I didn't know---"

"It's okay. I'm just glad I'm not a 'chuffer'. I didn't think I sent out a 'chuffer' vibe." She laughs a little and the sweet lilt of it sends shivers down my spine, but she drifts off into awkward silence. "So . . ."

This is it. This could make or break it. Maybe there's a chance of getting back together. One phone conversation can work everything out and we can be together again by tonight, sitting on the couch, watching _'Curb Your Enthusiasm'_ together. "So . . ." I reply carefully. 

"I . . . I was just calling to see when I can come over to pick up my stuff."

One sentence and all my castles in the air are shattered. "Pick up your stuff?

"Well yeah. It would helpful to have it. It isn't serving me by being somewhere else."

"So you've got a place to stay then?"

In a guarded tone, she mumbles, "Yeah."

"Who with? Willow and Oz?" Oz would have told me. 

She sighs. "Spike, I don't want to talk about it." This alarms me. If she doesn't want to talk about it, there's obviously something to talk about. 

"Why?" I press, slightly harsh. "What's wrong with me asking? Unless it's somewhere bad, you'd tell me."

"Spike . . . just tell me when I can come over to get my stuff."

The question still nags me compulsively. But she's the one who started it with all this "I don't want to talk about it" business. "After you tell me where you're staying."

"Forget it." She sounds tired. "Just forget it. I'll have Xander bring it over. Talk to you later."

Before she can hang up, I rush in and say, "No wait. Wait, I'm sorry. I don't mean it. You can come over tonight and get it."

"Will you be there?" she asks cautiously. 

"Jesus, Buffy. I can't even _be_ there? What's the big deal?"

"It's not a big deal, I just think it would be easier that way. If I saw you, we'd only get into an argument and I thought we had finished all the hard parts last night."

"What makes you think we'd get into an argument?"

"When do we _not_?"

"So that's it. You're leaving because we have the occasional squiffle."

"You _know_ why I'm leaving. We went over this last night. I made myself clear."

"Obviously not clear enough if I'm asking you again. I want to know why."

"Spike . . ."

"A person doesn't just stop loving someone, Buffy." I don't know where that came from. It's like the words have formed of their own accord.

Her voice is shaky. "I didn't say I stopped loving you," she murmurs quietly. 

"So what? So why is this happening?" I'm aware that I sound equally shaky. 

She sighs. "It's not that easy to explain. All I know is it's not because I don't love you. I wish I didn't love you anymore, it would make things a lot easier. But adult relationships are never that easy."

"Was it something I did, something I said?"

"Well duh. Obviously it was stuff you did and said."

"So it's all my bloody fault then?"

"All I'm saying is that of course you had a part in me leaving. I'm not going to give you the cop out and say 'It's not you, it's me'. Because that's only half-true. It's both of us. We both brought an end to the relationship------"

"No. Don't say that. Don't say 'the end'."

"Spike, please."

"Well, what do you want me to say? You want me to say I'm happy with this arrangement? I'm not. I want to know why. You haven't told me why."

"I told you I don't know! I don't know a lot of things right now. My mind is hazy and confused. And I'm scared."

"So _don't_ _go_."

"I have to. Out of all the things I don't know, I know that. I know I have to do this for myself." She sounds like a bloody Spice Girls song. Damn women's lib. 

"Damn it Buffy----"

"Just tell me you'll clear out of the apartment for a few hours so I can organize my things?"

I sigh defeatedly. "Fine. Whatever the fuck you want."

"Spike, don't be like this."

"Then _you_ don't be like this! Come home, come home and be with me. That's all I want."

Flatly, she mutters, "I have to go. I have to get back to work."

"Buffy, no, please-----"

Strangely, she pauses and says softly before hanging up, "I love you." 

What? Is that supposed to make me feel better? 

I clench my teeth and fists, groaning miserably. Finally letting out a grunt of rage, I kick the wall. I throw some papers and records around. I even hurl the couch over. Nothing works. The feeling is the same as it was in high school. Buffy hasn't pushed my hands out of her knickers the way Darla did, but she's made me just as stressed and bursting like a volcano about to ooze over into a fiery mess. 

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TBC……………..


	3. Distractions

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Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. The characters are Mutant Enemy's and the basic plot is Nick Hornby's. 

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Rating: R in this part for language. And yes, I know the language can get excessive sometimes, but I'm just writing in character. I don't really curse this much in real life. Well okay, I do. 

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Feedback: Yes. It's like a drug. In fact, if I could stick your words of praise directly into my arm, I'd be set. 

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Author's Note: Okay, so let's get one thing straight first off. I know some people are worried that this new fic will take me away from the two stories I'm currently writing ("Summer Sanctuary" and "Haven"), but rest assured that it will _not_. This is just something fun I was inspired to write after watching and reading "High Fidelity" a few too many times. The other two stories remain my priority, but let me have my fun writing this. 

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Chapter 3: Distractions

When I accepted Oz's offer to go out tonight, I did so under the impression that it would be just us males with the exception of Willow, whom I look on so platonically (which is atypical in the World of Spike since I rarely see women as anything besides sexual foes) that she becomes nearly male in my eyes anyway. I can see now it was all one big trick. 

When I arrive at the Bronze, I feel a cold chill spread within me as I approach Oz's table. And I know why. I have entered the nauseating kingdom of Coupledom. 

They're all there. All the boys and their honeys. Oz is there with Willow, Xander with Anya, and Gunn with Fred. They look so damned smug that I could kill them. 

"Hey, Spike!" Willow greets me cheerfully, a little too cheerfully, as if she thinks she can compensate for my obvious lack of cheer. "How goes the wonderful world of music retail?"

I shrug. "It . . . goes." I turn immediately to the crowd of beers lined on the table and pluck one up before anyone else can greet me. They all exchange worried looks they think I can't see. 

"Glad you could make it man," Gunn says, patting me on the back like a school counselor. "Feels like we haven't hung out for awhile." 

I give him a look. This is not only an egregious comment since our job is so slow that it practically qualifies as occupational hang-out-time, but it also doesn't come across as comforting and nice as intended. Because before, I was too busy with Buffy to have a Guy's Night Out. He is just drawing attention to the fact that I've been relieved of my more enjoyable burdens. Taking a long swig of beer, I squint at him a little and grunt, "Yeah."

"I'm glad you could make it too," Fred exclaims in her alert, nervous way. "The band that's playing tonight is s-supposed to be great."

They're struggling, I can tell. They're walking on glass around me, tiptoeing so obviously that it makes me clench my teeth. 

"That's what Oz said." I'm cold and menacing and gloomy, but I don't care. 

Fred looks like she just insulted my dead grandmother. "O-oh. R-right."

"Right."

Two minutes with the gang and already I've smothered the atmosphere like a proper wet blanket. They all shift silently and awkwardly, like they're afraid any sudden movements or words will result in me bursting into tears. Oz must have told them what happened. Xander seems fidgety and penitent most of all. I guess he feels guilty after our little skirmish at work. 

"So Spike . . ." he starts in the same annoyingly placating tone Gunn employs, "How . . . are . . . _you _. . . doing?" He nods his head and raises his eyebrow exaggeratedly as he tries for the sympathetic effect. He makes me feel like the poor little down-and-out kid whose puppy just got run over. 

I explode, unable to play this charade any longer. "Oh, for _FUCK'S sake_!" 

It has unnerved them, and they all go in an uproar. With worried eyes, they reach out for me, "Oh, Spike!" I'm suddenly attacked by Fred and Xander, who plaster themselves to me in a bone-crushing hug. "It'll be all right! We promise! Oh poor, poor Spikey!"

I push them off of me, revolted. "I implore you, in the name of everything holy, don't _ever_ do that again."

Fred rubs my back soothingly, and Xander looks close to tears. "Just let it out buddy, let it all out."

Extracting myself from them, I grumble, "There's nothing to let out. Please, the lot of you, don't get your knickers in a twist over me."

"We're just concerned about you, Spike, that's all," Willow pipes up. "We know how . . . well . . . how upset you get over things like this."

"Things like this." I know _exactly_ what she means by "things like this." She is referring to Dru, who successfully set me on the path of ruin I walk down today. She is referring to my revenge that did nothing but bite me in the ass and leave me broke and messed-up for the rest of my life. 

"That's very considerate of you. But I really don't need your concern. I'm doing fine without . . ." It's the c-word dilemma again. " . . . I'm doing fine by myself."

"Spike, it's not good to wallow in denial," Xander coos. "We're your friends, we're here for you to lean on."

"Seems to me if Spike doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to talk about it," Anya notes indifferently, studying her nails. I smile gratefully at her. She's probably the only one amongst the bunch who can rival me in dryness and at the moment; it makes me want to kiss her. She was never one for conventional subtlety. Her blatant disregard for the normal, human code of social interaction is so odd that at times, I wonder if she's from another planet or dimension. Like Canada. Whatever it is, I appreciate her right now. 

But she continues. "The amount of the misery he's feeling in the wake of Buffy's departure is obviously so large that he feels the need to repress." My expression shifts into a frown. I rescind all appreciative comments. 

"Nice girl you got there, Harris," I growl, and Xander, red with embarrassment, puts his arm around Anya reprimandingly. 

"Remember the thing we talked about, hun?" he says through a tight smile. 

"That thing where you told me I'm not supposed to point out how sad and pathetic Spike's situation is?"

Discomfited, Xander chuckles and jabs Anya in the ribs. "Right. Do that."

I sigh. "This was a huge, bloody mistake. I shouldn't have come." There is an uproar as they plead with me to stay, but I shake my head. "Sod it all. I'm going home, I've got a bottle of whiskey to crawl into --" I stop and groan. For I remember that tonight Buffy's coming over to gather her things. I can't be there. Fuck. First, I'm suddenly single, now I'm homeless. "Damn it. I can't go home."

"You bet your bottom dollar you can't go home!" Fred exclaims in her bright Texan drawl. "You'd be missing out some fun high jinks, Mister!"

I look blankly around. Gunn, Oz, Willow and Xander are all staring back at me with piss-warm bottles of beer in their hands. This is not exactly Fun Central. 

"Look at it this way, English," Gunn reasons. "There are worse places to be. Look around, smell the hotties. You have a whole club-load of them at your disposal."

Willow frowns at Gunn. "Gunn, don't encourage him to get back in the game so early --"

But my mind's already churning at the suggestion. "No, Willow, wait. Gunn's right." I gaze around me at all the scantily-clad specimens giving me come-hither looks. "Maybe a distraction is the way to go."

She furrows her eyebrows, dismayed. "S-Spike, you and Buffy haven't been broken up for 24 hours and already you're looking for other girls --"

"Hey! She left _me_, all right? I'm just trying to play the cards she dealt me." I give her a hard, sharp look that silences her immediately. I turn away and contemplate this new idea. 

Yeah. Maybe another girl would be the cure. After all, I'm not obligated to anyone any more. If Buffy and my mum and my dad and my mates think I have a problem as a flighty male, I'll just . . . well I'll just prove them fucking right. How dissident is that? Not only will I get a shag, but it'll probably make Buffy's blood boil, and I definitely like that idea. Satisfied, I straighten the lapels of my black duster, try out the old smirk and look around at all the other fishes in the sea. That's right, ladies. Big Bag Spike is back in town. 

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Three hours later, I'm on my seventeenth cigarette, sulking in the corner. Plan New Girl has failed miserably. It's like I'm transported back to junior high school, before Cecily or anyone else ever touched me. Deep down, under the layers of leather and black, I'm still uncool, unlearned William. And I'm totally inept at the flirting thing. I've attempted it with many girls who give me an inviting smile, but as soon as I open my mouth, I get hopelessly choked up and gasp for air. Disgusted and puzzled, the girls will walk away while I'm left wheezing for my life. And as I suffocate on my own social gracelessness, I come to one conclusion. 

Buffy has ruined me for anyone else. 

I go over to Oz, who's laughing with Willow. "I'm heading out," I mumble, throwing a thumb in the door's direction. 

"What? You can't. The band hasn't started yet."

"Yeah, well they're three hours late. I could need a hip replacement by the time they start."

"Hey, come on, stay. It's a good show. The drummer's my friend, he told me --"

The lights darken, and a colored spotlight hits the stage. The crowd goes quiet as the band still goes over their sound check.

"See? You can't leave now. You're still in the prime of life, and they're starting. It's win-win."

I sigh and plop into the chair. I begin counting the minutes until I leave. Moment I'll get up to fifteen, and I'm out the door. Nursing my third Heineken this evening, I don't even notice that the band has started until a smooth, velvety voice soars across a pair of jangling guitars that strum a moody intro. I look up and see a girl holding the microphone like she's making love to it. Her smoky-lidded eyes are deep and unfathomable, and her red-painted lips press seductively against the mike. She's got choppy, dirty blonde hair with pink and purple streaks in it, and she's dressed in clunky, knee-high boots and a distracting, shredded-and-safety-pinned dress. Her voice is husky and thick, and she's swaying to the music with her whole body in an incredibly sexy way. In short, she's hot. 

"Who's that?" I murmur, my eyes still fixed on the stage. 

"That's Veruca," Oz nods. "Lead singer, obviously. She's all right. A little odd, but pretty talented."

Willow scrunches up her faces and studies her closely. "I dunno. She's kinda got that mysterious Tori Amos thing going for her, but the punk gear seems to be trying too hard. It's a shade Avril."

"What's a shade of what?" Xander arrives with drinks and snacks. "What are we talking about?"

"We're discussing the band's singer and her poseur factor. What do you think of her?"

Xander squints and smiles dreamily. "I don't know about poseur, but from what I see, the girl's got quite a set of --" Anya slaps him upside the head just in time, and Xander shrinks diffidently. "Of pipes. Vocal cords. Sound-making devices."

Gunn chuckles. "Nice save, Xan, but boy, are you _incredibly_ whipped." He makes a whipping motion while Xander grimaces and Anya beams.

"What do you think of her, Spike?" Fred asks, turning to me while I'm still in a glazed state. 

"Uh -- wha…? Oh. Umm, she's not so bad." And by not so bad, I mean highly shaggable. This Veruca chick looks right up my alley. She's cute and talented and . . . I mentioned highly shaggable? Anyway, she looks like she'd fit me. Buffy always looked too clean for me somehow. It would be strange to see her grab one of my Sex Pistols shirts in the morning as she padded into the bathroom clad in J. Crew slippers. I can imagine this Veruca in my "God Save the Queen" shirt, though. We'd make a regular Sid and Nancy. 

But then all I can think of is Veruca, with her hair all tousled and her legs peeking out of my shirt, and then I get nervous with how much I want her; because, for some reason, I can't leave it off there. It's twisted. The only woman I've wanted for a long time has been Buffy, so any lust for any other woman makes me think of _her_. It's almost habitual. It's like I want Veruca so much that it stops being _about_ Veruca and becomes more about the simple feeling of physical yearning, which in turn makes me remember of how I've wanted Buffy. And suddenly, I'm filled with an intense, aching longing for her. My mind is a warped and perverse instrument. 

I'm caught in this wistful daze that Anya shakes me roughly out of. "Spike. Spike." She turns to Xander. "I think that's it. He's finally gone nuts."

"I haven't gone nuts," I mutter without looking at her. "I'm just enjoying the show."

"Enjoying the show or enjoying Veruca?" Fred teases coyly. I've been found out. 

"Aww, homeboy's blushing!" Gunn adds with a smile. I look over at Willow, and she looks less than pleased. I suppose she thinks she's being loyal to her best friend. If only she knew how loyal I am to Buffy, despite my desire to be otherwise. I take Willow's consternation as an excuse to duck out.

"Well, kiddies, I'm all tuckered out," I say, faking a yawn. "I'm going home."

Xander waggles his eyebrows at me. "Oh come on, Spike, don't you want to ogle your new crush for the rest of the set?" 

If I ogle Veruca any more, I'll miss Buffy so much, I'll die. "The Manchester United match is on the telly. Can't miss it."

Willow puts a hand on my arm before I can leave. "Hey. You think we could meet up for lunch tomorrow at the Espresso Pump? I wanted to talk, just the two of us. Wanted to talk more in depth about . . . you know."

I really don't know, but I'm assuming it's something Buffy-related. Maybe she thinks she can intervene somehow. I see that look in her eyes. She thinks we should get back together. Maybe her hope is enough to make it happen. I nod. "Sure, Red. Whatever you want."

"We know what you want, Spikey." Xander gives me a snarkish grin, cocking his head at the stage. Everyone titters knowingly, but before anyone else can make a crack about Veruca, I'm gone. 

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I enter the apartment with a sigh and throw the keys on the side table in the hall. But then I glance to see Buffy's camel-colored suede coat splayed across a chair, and I stiffen. Gingerly, I creep to the bedroom where I find her sitting on the bed, staring at an old picture of us, taken one sunny day at the Sunnydale Marina. She's hunched over, and I secretly rejoice when I think she's crying, but she hears me and turns, dropping the picture on the bed. Her eyes are satisfactorily rimmed with redness, but she's not fully weeping the way I want. 

"Spike."

I shift uncomfortably, but loiter near the door. "Hey. Sorry, I thought you'd be done by now, I didn't think --"

"No, it's okay. I think I have the last of it anyway." She motions to the pile of bags lying in the corner, and it surprises me how little space it takes up. It seems like she occupied so much more of my life than six duffel bags.

There's a suicidal silence that follows, mostly caused by both of our reluctance to move. Gazing away from her, I suddenly close my eyes and bang my head against the doorframe. I can hear her get up and put a light hand on my shoulder, and a surge of electricity racks my whole body. Opening my eyes, I shake my head. "It doesn't make any sense, Buffy," I whisper softly. "You leaving doesn't make any sense." Her whole body seems to go limp in dismay, but I continue in haste. "I know I've been a cad. A horrible bounder. But I've always been a horrible bounder. This is old news. Why is it suddenly an issue?"

"Because you haven't changed, and I have. I might have been okay with you being a bounder before, but I need to move on. I need to grow up."

"Oh, fucking please. Forty-eight hours ago, you didn't feel the need to grow up. We were happy. Are you telling me you've aged ten years in one day?"

"This isn't sudden. You had to know it was coming. We haven't been happy for a long time. Face it, _you_ haven't been happy for a long time. Maybe longer."

"Okay. So again, this is about me. You say it's not my fault, then you say it is."

She grits her teeth and throws her hands up in frustration. I take that as a good sign. It's more feeling I've seen her emit since the start of this thing. "Spike! You can't be this oblivious!"

"Oblivious to what?"

"You know why I left?" she rages. "Because you wanted me to."

"Don't fucking start this psychological mumbo-jumbo --"

"I'm serious. You're always so miserable because you're so afraid that I'll leave you. You use that as an excuse not to get on with your life. So I thought I'd do you a favor and just give in to what you always knew I'd do."

"So this is for my _good_?!" Honestly. Women make absolutely no sense. "And I'll tell you why I'm miserable! I'm miserable because my girlfriend has it in her stupid, silly littl' head that she suddenly can't stand me and my so-called depressed ways."

She tries to move past me, grabbing one of her bags. "I told you we'd only get into a fight --"

"Well, get _this_ into your head, pet." I grab her arm and whirl her back against the wall. I smash my lips against hers, plundering her mouth with my tongue. She wants to pretend that it's not real anymore, so I show her just how real it is, how real it's always been. It's almost scary how deep and consuming the kisses can still be. It's bitter and painful, but blinding and overwhelming at the same time. My heart is throbbing in my throat, and I get the acute feeling that the kiss is bigger, much bigger than me, and I'm just a small, insignificant ant, drowning in a sea of wet passion. I feel dizzy, and my knuckles are white against her slight arms, but she's moving against me, wriggling her head back and forth to give me different angles of access. She's clutching me, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I hear her moaning small little whimpers into my mouth. Just when I think I'm losing it, I've finally died in her arms, she slips out from under me, brushing past. I'm left with my forehead against the wall as her footsteps clatter frantically against the floor. She scurries out the door and slams it with quaking strength. I shut my eyes tightly and restrain the impulse to thrust my fist through the wall. 

Everything's fucking topsy-turvy. The distractions only make me concentrate on Buffy more. The "good" life she's letting me have by leaving is much worse than our "miserable" existence together. I'll never understand it. 

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TBC………………….


	4. Discoveries

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Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. The characters are Mutant Enemy's and the basic plot is Nick Hornby's. 

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Rating: R for language. 

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Feedback: Yes, all those lovely words of praise would be like the gifts I didn't get Christmas day (damned miserly parents). 

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Chapter 4: Discoveries

The next morning, I'm sitting at the Espresso Pump trying to forget the events of last evening. Still, images of sexy Veruca, all unkempt hair and smoky eyeliner, slithering and singing onstage in an almost illegal way, and Buffy, teary but still beautiful, smashing her hot little mouth to mine, come unbidden into my pained, groggy head. I clench my teeth, struggling to lose myself in a latte, or at least my version of a latte. I splash a very small cup of coffee with a large amount of whisky from the flask I've brought and drain it down blindly, oblivious to all the looks of disgust the other customers are sending my way. I glare back at them darkly as if to say, yes, I am aware that it is only 10 o'clock in the morning. And I don't bloody give a fuck. 

I'm so immersed in my intense curmudgeon-ness that I don't notice Willow approach me with a scowl to rival mine. She has to clear her throat sternly a couple times before I'm drawn out of my black little cloud, and it is only then do I scramble up to draw out the chair for her so she can sit down. That's right. I'm one of those kinds. A dying breed, we are. The true "Sir Walter Raleigh" gents, who'll open doors for you, walk on the street side, offer you their coat the moment you give a sign of the slightest shiver. See? I'm not such a horrible person after all.

But immediately after she sits down, Willow wants to set that record straight. She looks me fiercely in the eye and says flatly, "You're a real asshole, Spike."

I straighten and sputter my latte all over her nice pink kitty shirt. And it's not because I think what she's saying is outrageous. I'm not going to argue her assessment of my moral character. I'm just surprised because this is not the Willow Rosenberg I know. The Willow Rosenberg I know doesn't talk as much as stammer, saying things in such a roundabout way with all these smirks and quirks and hand motions that it tires you after five minutes. She must be a real woman with a mission to cut to the chase so quickly like this. 

I play it cool and cock an eyebrow, still sipping my coffee. "It took you long enough to figure it, Red."

"Don't do that. Don't do that flippant, dry, British-y wit thing you do to get out of serious situations. I'm talking for real here. This is real."

"My mistake. I could have sworn you were saying I was merely posing as an asshole."

"See?! That! Stop doing that! Stop being all sardonic and --" She pauses and squints at me attentively. She notices my blood–shot eyes and slightly-tipsy state and frowns with dismay. "Wait—are you _drunk_?"

I laugh in an attempt to cast her accusation off, but a sudden hiccup ruins my cover. Still, I straighten and declare self-righteously, "I have no idea what you're talking about." Then the bloody flask falls out of my pocket onto the floor, and Willow swipes it, eyeing me like disapproving mother. Shame-faced, I mumble, "Just a bit knackered, I suppose."

"God, Spike. It's 10:23 in the morning."

"It's purely medicinal," I insist, followed by another hiccup. She shakes her and rolls her eyes dramatically.

"And to think, I talked to Buffy last night about this whole thing," she says, like she's acting as Mother Teresa on behalf of me, a lowly thief who doesn't even deserve it. She pauses and suddenly bores her eyes into me, signifying that she has just said something very important that I'm expected to respond to. 

"What? So you talked to her. That's what you womenfolk do, I hear. You yammer each others' ears off."

"Aren't you curious to know what was said?"

"I'm pretty sure I know what was said. Stuff 'bout me and her, I expect."

"That's right," she replies harshly. "Stuff about you and her. At first it was stuff about how I thought you guys were so great as a couple and should get back together, then it kind of segued into stuff about how much of an asshole you are." She says it with an emphasis on _asshole_, as if this is my new code name like "Nighthawk" or something that I should get used to. 

My head is on the table and it's spinning. Veruca, Buffy, alcohol very early in the day, now Willow screaming at me. I'm very, very tired of this. I pick my head up and glare at her. "And what kind of stuff makes me such an asshole, exactly?" I say, with true self-righteousness now. What does Willow think she's doing? What position is she in to judge me?

Willow crosses her arms and burns me to the quick with her eyes. "Oh, I don't know . . . let's see . . . how about . . . _sleeping with someone else_, maybe?!" she shrieks. 

Oh. Right. That. 

****************************************

Okay, before you all start with the looks of condemnation, give me a chance to explain. It's not as bad as it sounds. I am not a bad human being. A shitty, worthless prat, a rebellious, ungrateful son, an inattentive and non-committed boyfriend perhaps, but not a bad human being. I never had the intention of cheating on Buffy. I'm sure most boyfriends don't. Any boyfriend who knowingly goes out to cheat on his girl is a real tool, ladies, and deserves to be scorned with all the fire you can muster. Out of all the people on earth, I know for a fact that boyfriends like these will meet their future in hell, rotting away with Hitler and Stalin and Martha Stewart. I am not one of these people. 

It was just a stupid, drunken encounter one night a million years ago. Okay, more like eight months ago. Still . . . _eight fucking months ago_. That's a long time. Buffy and I had gotten over it. We had talked it through like adults and moved on. I could try and explain this to Willow, but she'll still want to know why I did it. I suppose you do, too. 

Like I said, it was just a drunken mistake, simple as that. Well, I'm lying. It was one of those moments that seemed very simple, but was actually the result of extended complications. 

Buffy and I were going through a rough spot at the time. I don't know if we really acknowledged how rough it was, favoring suppression and strained verbal contact instead, but we both were aware that we were not in a good place. We were growing apart, already straying in opposite directions. Buffy was helping her mother with her art gallery and in the process, making a name for herself in the art world as girl with a good eye for the business. She put on a few shows by herself in her mother's gallery with a few local artists, and they were all smashing successes. Eventually, she launched into the grandiose project of opening a new wing for the gallery, entirely her own, and there was great hype surrounding the whole thing. Therefore, she was busy, too busy for me, and I was less than pleased. 

As you can probably guess, I was on the other end of the spectrum. The store was doing less-than-satisfactorily (which is to say it was doing as it always does), and I was broke. So broke, in fact, I had to go crawling back to old Rupes, which took a lot of dumbing down of my dignity to do. With a shake of the head and a bloody "I told you so, William," he lent me five thousand dollars to get me on my feet. It might sound easy to take someone's money, especially if that someone's your dad, but I had never asked anyone for anything in my life before (well, besides the couple thou I borrowed to get the store started in the first place, but that was no walk in the park, either). It crushed that manly sense of self-determination in me and in consequence, I fell into a long fit of moodiness that excelled my normal moodiness. With things like that, I expected Buffy's support. But no. It was always "I have to work on plans for the gallery, Spike" or "I'm just too busy, Spike" or "Shut the hell up and stop whining, Spike."

Even the sex had dried up alarmingly. The one constant in our life had suddenly become unfeasible and not in accordance with our schedules. Well, hers' anyway. She would wearily come home from the gallery every night and say, "Not tonight, Spike. I promise, when things at work clear up, we'll have a night to ourselves," then promptly fall dead asleep. 

But things at work didn't clear up. They remained just as busy, just as hectic, and just as incongruous with our sex life as ever, and it stayed that way for two months. _Two months_ without shagging. It was too much, I tell you. I felt as celibate as an eighty-year-old priest, and twice as miserable. Something had to be done; something had to be the catalyst for change. 

I'm not saying that I thought sleeping with another girl would be the proper way to rejuvenate the relationship. I do know that I was desperate and horny and drunk off my arse one night at the Bronze when a saucy trollop named Faith walked up to me and started whispering dirty things into my ear. I practically would've been sold even if she were Agnes, the dog-faced girl; I was that piss-drunk.

So we stumbled back to her motel room, located in the seedier parts of Sunnydale, and proceeded to do things I barely remember (though she told me later I was quite the stallion, which filled me with shame and pride at the same time; I was a stallion with a girl who wasn't my girlfriend, but at least I didn't let myself down. I had never gotten "you're quite the stallion" from Buffy. She's not the kind of girl who'd say that, but still, it's nice to hear). 

In the morning, I was reasonably horrified with myself. Mulling over my guilt for about a day or so, I finally decided to do the adult thing and tell Buffy (which, in my mind, takes a lot of balls to do. As far as I'm concerned, the valor shown by telling your girlfriend you have cheated on her should purge you from the sin of the crime). Turns out, the trick worked. Oh, there was lots of screaming and crying and rowing and near-packing of bags, but in the end, we all calmed down and agreed that one drunken encounter was not worth getting broken up over. So we didn't tell anyone about it. And it was actually a blessing in disguise, because after it all happened, we could admit to things out in the open. Buffy could admit to be work-obsessed and negligent and I could admit to be a good-for-nothing cad. I thought, in some strange way, we were stronger because of it. 

But I guess not. Because if Buffy is going around, digging up old mistakes and using them to justify to her friends the true nature of my assholiness, then I guess it really didn't solidify our relationship the way I thought. 

*******************************************

I try and explain this all to Willow. I try and show her my point-of-view, and though she is merely appraising it as "the asshole who cheats on his girlfriend" point-of-view, her face softens a little bit when I describe my plight. She's especially impressed by my immediate admission of guilt, but I can see her feigning solid anger and indifference to everything I've said. She shakes her head and shrugs, her façade of wrath sinking down in ambivalence, and says, "Well, I don't really care what you have to say about it. All I know is that you hurt Buffy, ergo, you equals scum."

I give her a puppy-dog pout. "Oh, come on, Red. You and me have been pals for a while now, haven't we? Does this angelic face look like the face of scum?"

She's struggling not to giggle, and her little curling smile creases back into a frown. "Save your games, Spike. There's no way to redeem yourself."

"Not even if I give you a cookie?" I ask, coyly waving a sugar cookie in her face. She laughs, then looks ashamed for finally caving in. 

"Not even if you give me a cookie."

"So what? We can't be friends anymore now that me and Buffy are broken up?"

She looks taken aback, then considers this. "I didn't say that. I just want you to properly stew in guilt the way you should be doing."

"I see."

"And it's not like I'm saying Buffy was totally in the right. I mean, I don't really approve of the way she's handling this Riley guy, but --"

I freeze, and Willow jolts and blushes when she realizes she's let the cat out of the bag. Gripping the edges of the table tightly, I squint at her hard. Two words, and she's opened a messy can of worms I am not prepared to deal with. "What Riley guy?" I ask her through clenched teeth.

She rushes to get up and flee before I can interrogate her further. "I better go, I have to pick some things up at the Magic Box up the street --"

I grab her arm. "Hold it, Glinda. Not before you tell me this: _What fucking Riley guy?_" She chews on her lip and looks at me worriedly. 

"I s-shouldn't have said anything," she stammers before slipping out of my grasp. She escapes up the street, leaving me alone in the Espresso Pump, my world shaken. 

I stare at Willow's half-empty cup of coffee and the strewn sugar cookie on the ground, the only remnants and evidence of our encounter. They are the same as they were a minute ago and yet, suddenly, my life is totally different. A minute ago, I was just surly, smug, complacent Spike. Now Willow stupidly says one thing, and I'm filled with doubt, paranoia and unbelievable rage. I can't take it. I kick the chair and table over, sending the cups and silverware flying as I roar, "_WHAT FUCKING RILEY GUY?!!" _to no one in particular. I then proceed to kick in the wall, creating a very large hole. The other customers look scared and regard me as a schizo lunatic. The manager comes out with a malevolent look on his face. 

Needless to say, I am henceforth banned from the Espresso Pump. 

****    TBC………………….


	5. The Truth Comes Out

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Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. The characters are Mutant Enemy's and the basic plot is Nick Hornby's. 

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Rating: R in this part for language and references to adult situations. 

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Feedback: Is Kelly Osbourne histrionic and massively annoying? Yes please!

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Author's Note: Wow, so um . . . it's been a good six months or so since I've updated ANY of my Buffy fics, so with the dead time of summer on my hands, I thought I'd give it a whirl. If there are any readers still out there, thanks for still keeping up! "Summer Sanctuary" and "Haven" updates will soon follow! 

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Chapter 5: The Truth Comes Out

I nearly break the door off its hinges as I storm through thresh hold like a Hurricane Willy. Normally I would mull over my mail, see if I've got the new issue of whatever underground music magazine I've applied to this month, saunter over to the larder to grab a beer and sulk like a hermit for the rest of the afternoon, but today, I avoid such idiosyncrasies. I'm a man with a mission and I won't rest till there's blood on m'hands. 

__

Riley.** _Riley_**. I know this name; it's a name that haunted the halls of Sunnydale High during my years there. You couldn't go anywhere without hearing that name cried by the dull, adoring masses as the proud carrier of this name strode down the hallway. Cro-Magnons on the football team would grunt it approvingly in his direction, skittish girls would sexily croon it to him with a wink, nervous, pasty losers would chirp it in greeting with their reedy, cracking voices, hoping that it would be the key to acceptance. And you would always see it be uttered with a spark of worship in the eye, as if this Riley was a Grecian god, with golden-painted skin and a gentle, ebullient halo encircling his head. 

God, I hated that fucker. 

I don't even remember what the sod looked like, except that he was well built and attractive, in a pedestrian, generic way. I do remember him being the star quarterback for our football team, the hailed "Redeemer of the Razorbacks", the sole reason our slumping team had pulled out of our notorious five-year loosing streak to blaze to fields of undefeated glory. 

He had transferred to Sunnydale our sophomore year from white bread farm town in Iowa and he immediately caught on with the whole school. He could be seen associating with everyone---the jocks, the nerds, the dorks, even the stoners, who, despite his clean-cut approach, declared him a "righteous dude . . . _man_." He got along with everyone so well, so jocularly, so breezily, that is was impossible _not_ to hate him. 

Not to mention he made it all the harder on us boys to even imagine snagging a girl if he was in our midst. No girl with sight (and even Betsy, the chick who was nearly blind and was forced to wear spectacles as thick as molasses) could resist Riley. He was like a bloody disease; he would walk by and flash a grin, and girls' heart rates would noticeably rise to dangerous degree so that they were left nearly wheezing along the corridors. Willow, Fred and Anya even fancied him, and it was murder being around them if he happened to pass by. If you ever wondered what it's like to be thrown headfirst into a pack of screeching seagulls, the situation was quite evocative. 

And now my Buffy has succumbed to his Captain Cardboard charms as well. He indirectly made my life in high school a living hell by denying me access to most of the girls' hearts in Sunnydale, and now he's obviously decided to screw me on a more personal level by screwing my girlfriend. 

Alright. Ex-girlfriend. But from Willow's tone, and according to my mental time chart, it's obvious that fishy business has been going on for awhile. It's only now that I'm unlucky enough to smell the stench. 

I stalk over to the bookshelf and ravage it, searching its back crevices for an item I repeatedly vowed never to gaze upon again. My hands grapple and wrestle with dust bunnies in the dark, unlit places until I feel something flat and hard. Grunting in raging triumph, I pull it out. 

A book. On the cover was proudly emblazoned, "Sunnydale High School, Class of 1996: The Future is Yours! Today!"

The inane optimism makes me grit my teeth. If I had know that this would be my future all those years ago, I would have winged it right back at The Powers That Be and tell them to eat it. 

I open the yearbook with speed, never minding about keeping the glossy pages uncreased as I scurry through them in a mad torrent. _Riley, Riley, Riley . . . _his name is smugly hiding from me, I know it. I go straight to the Rs since I know that, in proper high school etiquette, Riley is probably his _last_ name, adopted as his first by the always creative and half-witted apes of the football team. Quickly, I scan down the list. _Rafferson, Radney, Richardson, Rilke, Rosenburg----_I pause and smile somewhat sentimentally over pig-tailed and rainbow-sweatered Willow, smiling like the eternally cheery sprite she is until I realize that I've skipped over Riley. Shit. This wanker is deliberately evading me, sneaking his picture in between the margins of the senior class. 

With a restrained, but thunderous growl, I clench my fists and throw the yearbook at my helpless wall, leaving the book to clunk to the floor. Holding my head in my hands, I shake my head miserably. _This isn't fair, this isn't fair, why the **fuck**_ _is life fair for everyone except me_?

This tireless tirade on mankind isn't getting me anywhere. There's still a bloke out there, putting his wood to my Buffy, who, regardless of whether she currently likes me or lives with me is still _mine_. Yes, I'm a possessive jerk. But Buffy knew this, and should have counted on me giving her and her new beefstick some trouble. 

But it's all a fantasy. I'll never find them and I'll never win her back and as usual, I'll be left alone, the victim of another heartless rejection. 

I sigh and go to pick up the yearbook when I suddenly am drawn to a picture of a rather frail-looking blonde boy, giving the camera his best impersonation of Johnny Rotten, but looking more like a disgruntled Steve Gutenburg. This façade of indifference, of anti-establishment anger is sad somehow. It is too soft, too unshaped by years of bitter experience. I long to tell eighteen-year-old William Brian Giles to give up the rebellious scowl of adolescence; you'll have more reason to legitimately scowl some day, so smile while you can. 

As I ruminate sadly and grievously over the circumstances the Younger Me has yet to scowl through, my eye suddenly tilts up and I see him. Riley Finn, a couple rows above me. There he is, shining his pearly whites and cocking his beefy head on his thick neck like an innocent choirboy. I know better, though. I know his stinking, poisonous soul that steals away financially (and at this point, I'm thinking mentally) broken record storeowners' girlfriends. 

I spring up, waving the yearbook wildly. "I'm _ON_ to you, motherfucker!" I scream, and I think Mrs. Carlisle from next door has dropped her teacup to the floor due to my boisterous profanity. Grabbing the telephone book, I nearly rip it in half looking for Riley Finn. My heart races when I find it and start dialing the phone. This is all mindless, for I have not a bloody clue of what I'm doing. What am I going to do, call this poof, tell him to piss off and release my girlfriend from his malicious clutches and let her come joyfully home to me? And if he doesn't, I'll take the sharpest chainsaw I can find and make nice, bloody crudités of him?

As a matter of fact, this sounds like an excellent idea. 

In retrospect, I have probably made a very, very bad mistake, because I don't know for sure if this is the Riley Willow is talking about, though I am more than 64 percent sure. And if it is, that doesn't change the fact that I am horrendously out of shape, while from what I remember of Riley, he could nearly bench press a Cadillac. So maybe it's a blessing that Buffy answers his phone instead. 

Either that or I'm living a bloody, fucking nightmare. 

"Hello?" She sounds so damned innocent, so cheerful and so happy to be rid of me. So this was what the whole "I don't want to talk about it" shit was about. 

"Hello?" she repeats as my mouth goes dry. "Hello, hello?" Her tone becomes more frustrated, and to spare us both, I hang up on her as I feel tears and hot, blinding rage rise in my throat. 

Collapsing in my chair and starting to tear at its leather, I feel like this is it. This situation with Buffy has rapidly degraded from a salvageable project to an on-the-worst-breakup-list memory. My life will not be defined by what I'm doing, but what I've _done_, the mistakes that will only be accumulated into lists I keep to morbidly amuse myself. The phone rings again quickly and I freeze. Could it be . . . no. Riley couldn't have caller id. Buffy wouldn't have picked up the phone if she saw my number. And she certainly doesn't know of star-69. Her technological capabilities are limited to computer solitaire. Hesitantly, I pick up the phone and pause fearfully. " . . . Hello?"

"Spike." Fucking fuck shit-shit. It's Buffy. Not only is Riley out to ruin my life, but he taught her how to use the phone. Maybe I can fake this. 

"Buffy!" I feign breezily. "Hullo, it's nice to hear from you. I was just thinking about calling Willow to get the number of where you are, you left some of your socks here --"

"Cut the bull, Spike. You just called Riley's."

No, no, no. I still try at ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about --"

"Unless there's a magical elf in your apartment who likes using your number to harass me, I'd say you're lying."

I explode. "_Harass you_?! I was merely catching you in the act of squalid infidelity --" I stop when I realize I've just been caught. Clearing my throat self-righteously, I say, "Okay. So I might have called. But I certainly didn't expect _you_ to pick up. Not like you made the effort to tell me of your whereabouts . . . or who you've been whereing-about _with_." I rejoice when I hear something catch in Buffy's throat and I'm pretty sure it's guilt. 

"Who told you?" she asks in a small voice. 

"Doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that you didn't, when we had a relationship or otherwise." I nearly choke on my own words, because it's the first time I've admitted to our union in the past tense to her. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry – I never meant for this to happen."

"So this was it, wasn't it? You tried to put the guilt on me, say this ended because I'm unhappy and I'm hard to live with and it's all my soddin' fault, when the reality of it is, you've just been shagging some fuckwit behind my back!"

"Spike! It's not like that!"

"So tell me what it's like!"

Her voice gets all the hushed and quiet. "Spike, I have to go – this isn't a good time -- " I hear a low, hearty, masculine voice in the background, and I almost break the phone with my bare hands. 

"Is that him? Is that Riley Fuckwit?"

"Spike, _please_, we'll talk about this later, I just have to -- "

A question stumbles out of my mouth, and I know it's not the kind that can be answered at the brink of the end of a conversation, but maybe that's why I ask it, just so I can hear her voice for a little longer. "Is it better?"

She stops. "Is _what _better?"

"What, what. Playing Chinese Checkers with him, darning socks with him, you know _what_ I'm talking about."

Buffy almost laughs harshly. "Spike, I can't believe you. Is that all you care about?"

"It's a simple question. Just give me a simple answer."

"So why? So you can either have your ego massaged or destroyed when I tell you? I'm not falling for it. And what makes you think we've done anything anyway?""

I snort a bitter noise of contempt. "Please. If I know anything about you, it's how easy it is to pry your dimple knees apart. Lest you forget our how we meet and shagged the same day." These words are untrue and hurtful and cruel, but I don't care. Buffy has hurt me and acts as if she owes me nothing, not even a simple answer. I hear the palpable sudden anger emanating from her silently across the phone, and I recognize how flushed and upset she is by her thick voice. 

"Well if you must know, it's been better, Spike. So much better than it's ever been with you. Riley is the man you never could be, in the bedroom and otherwise --"

She's lying, I know it. I can tell by how theatrical and catty she sounds. She's doing it to hurt me and I know better than to fall victim to it. 

I hang up the phone anyway. 


End file.
